


Sentiment

by foxybadger42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:13:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxybadger42/pseuds/foxybadger42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sometimes collects a bit too much information and doesn’t know what to do with it and he finds it hard to cope with his intelligence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is mine. G. Lestrade belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Kitty Riley to the BBC. No profits are being made. Written just for fun.

'Sherlock —

Greg stopped in the doorway on the first floor of 221b, raising his hands in a calming gesture.

'Put the gun down.'

The younger man was sitting in his leather chair, legs pulled up to his chest, hands clutching his head. His right was holding John’s gun. How the hell had he got a hold of those! The law said that gun owners had to store it safely!

But he remembered Sherlock was quite a skilled lock-picker.

'Sherlock?'

It had been years since he had last found him in a state like this. Not since he had stopped using —

'Sherlock — did you take something?'

Still no answer.

'Sherlock, talk to —

He had stepped forwards, and Sherlock had moved, pointing the gun right at Greg, his hand trembling violently.

He felt himself turn pale, his eyes fixed on the shaking gun. He wouldn’t!

Would he?

And why?!

He lowered the gun and placed it alongside his head again, but Greg didn’t move again. He’d gotten the hint.

So instead, he stood there, lowering his hands, only slipping his hand unto his coat to turn off his phone. And then he waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to be ready to to speak.

His legs were aching by the time Sherlock finally lifted up his head, staring into space, his eyes bloodshot and wet with tears. He didn’t meet Greg’s gaze, but finally spoke:

'It's — too much.'

'What is?' Greg asked cautiously.

'My — my head.'

'What do you mean?'

'My head — the inside of my head!' Sherlock spoke agitatedly, tapping his temple with the side of the gun. 'It's — too much!'

'Can't you, I don't know — delete something?' Greg asked as he shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock had explained his 'hard-drive' to him once, but Greg had never really understood how it worked.

'Anything in here is of importance — I can't delete anything right now,' again, he tapped the side of his head. 'Not if I want to solve case quickly.'

'You don't have a case,' Greg reminded the man. Greg hadn't been able to give him anything for weeks, and neither had the website provided Sherlock with any distractions. 'You don't have to clog up on information when you don't have a case.'

'Then how will I stay busy!’ Sherlock roared as he gesticulated with his hands in frustration. ‘I’m bored! And this wretched world has nothing interesting for me! Not one case! Nothing!’

'Can't you — play some violin, or — play with your chemistry set?'

Sherlock gave him a foul look and tapped his head again.

'Full,' was all he said.

Greg rolled his eyes and groaned softly with frustration.

'There has to be something!' Greg shrugged again.

'There's nothing for me out there — at all.'

That actually hurt him.

'Thanks,' Greg said, averting his gaze to stare down at the floorboards, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

'Nothing. There's just the noise of cars passing. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances. People talking. Boring people talking. Talking about their lives. Social life. Their kids. Their loves ones. Their jobs. Their mortgage. Droning on and on, and on but never saying of any thing of importance —

Greg lifted up his head and responded at once before Sherlock could carry on:

'I love you.'

Sherlock’s eyes met his for the first time, but there was no change in his expression except for maybe a mild dash of surprise.

'Do you call that boring too?' Greg went on. 'Is that not important to you?'

The younger man didn’t respond but continued to look at him for a long time.

Minutes passed, until he finally spoke: ‘You know I would have done this years ago if I hadn’t met you — if you hadn’t been there.’

'And you're not going to do it now,' Greg said and shook his head. 'I know you're a selfish prat, but you're not going to leave me behind. Not again.'

Sherlock lowered his gaze and Greg saw him swallow. It took another full minute until Sherlock finally lowered his hands.

Greg slowly stepped forwards, taking the gun from his hand and taking the magazine out before crouching down in front of Sherlock’s chair and placing the gun onto the floor.

'When are you going to accept the world isn't going to get any better?' he asked as he looked up at the younger man. 'You'll always be smarter than most of the population — thank God for that,' Greg grimaced before continuing: 'You need to accept that we're all boring and that you are a minority. And no matter how smart you are — you can't always know everything.'

Sherlock scoffed, obviously annoyed with that idea. He averted his gaze and shook his head.

'There's just — too much. I can't walk through a busy street without — without seeing everything. Every detail, every sign. It's how I am, Greg — I need to know everything.’

'No, you don't,' Greg said as he shook his head, leaning forwards to take Sherlock's face between his hands to force him to look at him. 'There are only a few things you need to know — the rest isn't important.'

Sherlock frowned in confusion and Greg smiled.

'You only need to know — that we love you. No matter how big a prat you are — we love you. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Molly — that's all that matters.'

Again, Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

'Sentiment — you're boring, Lestrade.'

'I know,' Greg said and nodded, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. 'You're just going to have to accept that.'

This time, Sherlock snorted and reached out, fondly running his fingertips over the side of Greg’s head, his shortly shaven hair pricking against his skin.

'I already have.'

'Good.'


End file.
